


You'll wait for me only, scared of the lonely arms.

by Faustkomskaikru



Series: Dapper Dandy Lexa AU [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: And love, Dapper Dandy Lexa, F/F, I don't know what happened here, and SIN, babygirl clarke, this is pure bliss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:57:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6317422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faustkomskaikru/pseuds/Faustkomskaikru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I guess I'll see you around, Lexa Woods.” </p><p>“You will.” </p><p>Cold invades you when she pulls back, letting go of your hand, and takes several steps back. “Goodnight, then.” </p><p>OR </p><p>Dapper Dandy Lexa meets Babygirl Clarke at a gallery opening, and falls instantly in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll wait for me only, scared of the lonely arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay guys, I don't know what happened here. I was supposed to write this in pure sin, but the Clexa feels caught up and it ended up being just an abyss of love and sin, fluff and more sins. Like, the words wouldn't stop coming out of me, I had no control. Anyway, I made a playlist of the songs that you should listen to, for moods appreciation, http://tinyurl.com/h3op3qb feel free.  
> There are quotes from Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet because I'm a sap like that.  
> Also, the song that is played on the piano is Dangerous Woman by Ariana Grande because a lot of people seemed to refer to it as the Fine Stud Lexa song. And Lesbihonest, it is.  
> Also, yes, this is the same universe as "Taking control of this kind of moments."  
> Always available at @ ifwerarestrangers on tumblr
> 
> Edit: Changed all my tags of Fine Stud Lexa to Dapper Dandy Lexa, several complaints have been made that those terms were offensive to some people so, my bad, changes are made!

The early hours of the night have you buzzing. Between the end of a hard day's work, and before the beginning of the night. Getting ready is your favorite time. Nice long showers are your safe haven, long minutes to forget, stripped from the outside world. You live for the moment you can feel the gentle caress of italian fabric against your skin. You start by getting your hair done. Up, nice and tight in a somewhat classy messy bun. You don't forget the loose strands on the side. Then make-up. Then, the excitement begin.

First you choose: four or three pieces suit. Three tonight, it is. Pitch black. Classic. Hugo Boss. Classy. Soft trousers fall loosely around your hips when you slide your shirt around your shoulders, carefully. Avoid the wrinkles. It's light and hugs your body in all the right ways. You tuck it in, you love the way it defines the lines of you hips, of your sides. Fitted and _fitting_.

The shoes come next, the leather maintaining your feet with a nice grip. You button your shirt until the very last one holds the collar tight against your neck. The soft pink bow-tie feels like it was made for you. You start to smirk. The fastening of the belt follows, it matches the shoes. How could it not? The last detail before you favorite part are the cufflinks. You spend a long time choosing but they have to be the _perfect_ ones. Every detail counts. Finally, once they're on, it's time for the best.

You brush your fingers on the fabric first. You feel it. Then, you take the suit jacket, throw it around you before slipping your arms down the sleeves. When it falls on your shoulders, embracing the shirt underneath, you sigh. You feel home. You feel good. The pocket square is the last touch. Matches your bow-tie, of course. You pull a little at the sleeves of the shirt, adjust the collar of the jacket. Button it. You're ready.

You feel like you slipped in your armor of confidence, the clothes are your shield. You feel invicible, like yourself but stronger. You won't ever get over the feeling of power that being in a suit provides. So it's only natural, that you wear one every chance you get. Tonight is no exception.

Tonight is a special occasion. Since you took over your father's company, you've been trying to support the art world more. Donating is important. You always wanted to support the things you believe in. Art being one of them, you're going attend the opening of the first gallery you funded. It's an important project, and you can't wait to honour all the artists that you helped get displayed. It's not overly big, it's a new gallery, not too fancy but fancy enough to get nice press coverage. It's good publicity for the company, for you, and your leadership.

It's important that you make an appearance, a good one. But you're used to it by now. You've been raised in this environment, you could do this in your sleep. So really, what has you so excited is the feeling that it's finally about something important. Something you care about. Art has always been a way to escape your world of finance. Sharks and hypocrisy. You hate it, but it's your family legacy and you must honour it. You love your job, you just sometimes wish it'd be more truthful. Less fake.

You promised when your father died that you would try your hardest to make a difference. To change your ways. Be better. That's not an easy thing to do when there are generations of traditions falling upon your shoulders. When your council actively works against your beliefs. It's a trial everyday but you're set on succeeding. Lexa Woods never fails.

It's with that tought that you arrive at the Arkadia Art Gallery. Press is here, of course, because you have to be _noticed_. You give them your best charming smile. It's practiced, mastered, owned. It's yours. It's epic. You don't linger too much though. You get inside the building. It's a nice, old one with touches of french architecture and you love it. You financed the rehabilitation, so when you enter you're delighted to see the result, filled with pieces of young and hopeful artists that are starting to get noticed, to make a name for themselves. There is a fresh smell of paint that mixes with old stones and sweet perfume. This is going to be a good night.

"Miss Woods, what an honour to have you tonight." You turn and see the director of the gallery, Marcus Kane. You met him a couple of times, you hired him in fact. You shake his hand with fervour.

"Marcus, hello. Please call me Lexa, you know I hate those formalities." He nods, reverent and respectful. A tad intimidated. It turns into pride when you say, "I love what you did with this place. It's marvelous."

"We couldn't have done it without you, thank you." Shiny eyes, bright smile. You could hug this man. He reminds you of your father.

"You made a strong case for yourself, Marcus, and I know to put my trust in the right people. Clearly I wasn't wrong."

You wish you could capture the look of pure pride and achievement in his eyes. The fact that you created it is this much satisfying.

"Well, let me introduce you to the artists then." He leads you to a tall man, almost dressed as good as you. "This is Lincoln, he made the sculptures." You exchange a warm handshake. He's got soft eyes. You go on and meet two others artists that you talk with briefly, taking the time to ask questions. Lincoln works with marble, creating weird creatures that are somewhat hybrids, they're beautiful, worked in a really classical style. The clash of the two cultures is astonishing. You meet Bellamy, a street-artist that had so much success with his pieces that he got noticed and imported into galleries. Then, there's Wells, that does really beautiful pieces, quite abstracts, they're a weird yet successful combination of Rothko and Monet. You absolutely love it, and promise to buy a piece. But then, then your breath catches in your throat.

Standing next to a painting, talking and laughing with a young brunette, is the most magnificent woman you've ever seen. You know it's her piece on the wall, you can feel it. Your heart forgets to beat for a second before thumping loudly against your ribcage. You feel absorbed, entranced. Because in seconds, she has turned towards you, Kane is talking to her. Kane is adressing her.

"And here is the only lady showcased tonight, my talented step-daughter Clarke Griffin." She smiles bashfully, shy and proud at the same time. Oh this woman is the only work of art worth showcasing tonight. All the paintings fade in comparison. She extends her hand for you to shake, but this is no way to greet such a goddess. You gently take it and bring it to your mouth, kissing the back of it gently. Cheeks are red and eyes fall to the floors.

"Talented and beautiful, what an honour." You say releasing her hand. "I am Lexa. Lexa Woods, owner of Woods Inc."

"I know who you are." She replies and you can decipher the tone in her voice. You certainly do hope it's flirtation. The smile that goes along with it would confirm it is but you can't look away from her eyes long enough to notice it. You gaze at each others for long minutes and nobody talks. You just want to drink all of her in. It's a throat clearing snaps you out of the intense momen. You turn to Kane.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, I'm going to go and schmooze some potential buyers." He smiles warmly, turns around and leave.

"Would you do me the honour of presenting your work, Clarke?" Her name rolls on your tongue and clashes against your teeth, strong, melodious. You imagine symphonies coming out of your mouth instead.

She nods proudly and start talking passionately about how her art is about transcending the beauty of the small things, about seeing the unseen. It's about learning about the vast details of life, that gradually and knowingly merge into a masterpiece.

She talks relentlessly, giving, and giving, with conviction and love of what she does. She talks about how she loves oil paint, the strong smell of chemicals and turpentine. The flexibility of it, creating shades and gradations. She talks about backgrounds that are pretexts for the strong and impactful foreground, how she likes to make them overcome each other, always battling for the viewer's eyes. And while she talks, you can only look.

The way her lips moves, the slight accent that you can't decipher. The way her hands are a whole part of the conversation. Every creases around her eyes, the deep bright shade of blue that colours them. Blonde curls that fall on naked shoulders. Strapless dress that hugs perfect curves you wish you could discover. You wish she was a canvas, and you could paint love on her features.

The more you discover the more you are fascinated. The way she stands, when she crosses her ankles. The way her collarbones are defined and how you wish you could softly touch them.

You are not quite done with being surprised yet because you realize you haven't looked at her work, for you think Clarke is the only thing worth staring at on the face of this galaxy. How more wrong could you have been? Wwhen your eyes fall upon the giant painting before you, you want to cry. You want to touch it, learn the ways the brushes have touched the canvas.

You couldn't say really what it represents. You see half of a stranger's face, eye is closed, mouth too. It's thrown back, strongly encased in a background of bright colors that merge with the face. It's a galaxy, you notice, but not only. You can see forests in there, you can see storms, and peaceful clearings.

It's somewhat painted with a preciseness that belongs to classical masters, with academic accuracy, but there is a freedom that can only belong to one master. You recognize it. But you swear you've never seen anything quite like this, and your chest feels tight with wonder.

"It's magnificent, Clarke."

"Thank you. I like to think that my work was inspired by impressionism, but specifically by-"

"William Turner." You say before you can stop yourself, turn to look at her once again.

"Yes." She looks back at you now, unbelieving. There's a long pause after this. And you go back to gazing at the piece. It's grand, it's powerful.

"I love the way classicism meets the wild and uncontrolled way of the impressionists." You say still in awe. You feel great, talking about art with someone who won't judge you for loving it. Who won't laugh because those things are "merely a hobbit, at most".

"It's nothing but controlled, if I may." She answers, with a smile.

"I'm sure. However, this is the most beautiful thing I have seen tonight. Besides you, of course." You try to throw in your best charming smile, but it's not quite there.

"Does this line usually works with girls? Because I am going to need more than this." She laugs, and oh, if you thought she was beautiful before, now you're done for.

"I must admit, Clarke, you are throwing me off my game." You heart is wild and hurts you each time it beats.

"Let's hope you gather yourself up before the end of the night then." She says, starting to turn and walk away. "Let me show you the rest of my work in the meantime."

And she does. Oh she does, she talks about each and every painting she has showcased tonight.

Before long the conversation shifts to art in general, you find yourself discussing for the better part of the night, slowly walking around, wandering the rooms of the exhibit.

You're always close to her, slightly behind her as she walks ahead, and you can't help but feel like you're chasing. You'd follow her through heaven and hell if she'd let you.

At one point, you both sit on the bench in the middle the room dedicated to her work. You're sitting side by side but facing away from each others. Shoulders touching, warmth mingling. Proximity feels like intimacy and provides with a sense of safety.

It creates a new space where only you and her exist and you want to tell her that you'd sell your soul for a touch of her lips. One second of her. You feel pulled to her, want to take residence inside her bones.

The conversation goes on until finally you find yourself saying "I think that I love Renaissance the most for its depiction of the female body though." You turn to look at her reaction, you know she'll get one.

"So you like it because it's full of naked women?" You laugh loudly. Ah, Clarke.

"No, I love it because it is daring and symbolic. Also, is it wrong that I appreciate the aesthetic?" You keep looking at her, not sure if you're still talking about painting. She turns to you so your eyes meet. It's intense, it always is when you look at each other.

"How can you appreciate the aesthetic when it is considered a sin?" She asks low, husky. No, you both know you're not talking about art anymore. Were you ever? You angle your body towards hers, lift a hand to her face. You can't help it.

"I pray for forgiveness because I'm a sinner."

Your faces grow closer, attracted like magnets. You don't hear anything other than the loud thump of blood pumping inside your ears, and her gentle breath that sounds like the wind of a spring day.

You lean in so very slowly, look at her lips, back at her eyes. Make this last forever, you want to die in the memory of this moment. It is striking in its honesty, for you're offering yourself whole and bare, like it has never happened before.

Your hand slips from her face to the back of neck, gently pulling her towards you, but never insistent, never forcing. You're almost there, in a split second, heaven's gate will open, and with this kiss, you will be purged from your sins.

"Clarke, there's someo- Oh hum. Sorry." It's like a train hit you and the force burst the world you had created within yourselves. You both get up and turn toward the interruptor. It's the same brunette that was with Clarke earlier. Silence drags for long seconds before you snap out of it.

"Hi, I believe we haven't been properly introduced ealier, I am very sorry for that. I'm Lexa Woods."

"Hum, yeah, I'm Octavia Blake. Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine. Blake? Is it safe to assume that you are Bellamy's sister?" You try to make small talk, ease the awkwardness, because Clarke has yet to say a word and you need to fill in the blanks.

"That, I am. I'm also Clarke's agent. Which is why I came to look for you in the first place," she says turning to her "You have a potential buyer, he wants to see you. I'm counting on you to shmooze the hell out of him. He's waiting for you at the front desk." She finishes and waits for a response. It never comes. Clarke looks at you with something you can't quite read, or understand. She looks shaken, and apologetic. You wonder why but in a second she's gone. A thousand swords through your heart would feel nicer than the feeling you get when you watch her walk away.

"Well, that's that." You're reminded painfully that Octavia is still here. You're also reminded that you would follow Clarke through hell and back, but would never force her into anything. So you swallow and put on your best unaffected face.

"You said you were her agent, does that mean that you're in charge of the selling of the painting? Or is she gone to take care of it herself?"

"No, that's me. This guy just wanted to talk about the painting to see if "he was getting into it". I swear." She rolls her eyes, then "But, no, if you want to buy, I'm definitly the person you should talk to."

"Well, I'm talking to you then. I'd like to purchase one." Oh yes, you'll be damned if you leave this place without a piece of Clarke. With a part of her heart.

"Wonderful, come with me then."

You follow her to an office where she asks which one you wish to purchase. Of course you choose the first one you laid your eyes on. When she tells you the price, and fill out paperwork, you write her a check for 4 times the price of the painting. You would pay more because her work is invaluable in your eyes but you doubt she will accept it. You receive a look from Octavia and just say, "This is not up for discussion."

You know how it works. Half of the money goes to the gallery, and there's at least a 10% commission for Octavia. The price of the material. Oil paint costs a small fortune. Really, in the end, Clarke will only get the price she asked for in the first place, it seems only fair.

Once everything is signed, you go back to the gallery to say your goodbyes to Kane and the other artists, promising you'll come back soon. You walk quietly toward the front door of the building when someone runs after you.

It's Clarke, you feel it. When you face her, she stops a few feet away.

"You leave without saying goodbye?"

"You were busy."

"Not anymore." A few feet less separate you. Breathe in, breathe out. You are calm and composed. In, out. You're fine.

She extends her hand, and say "No handkissing this time." That smile would slay the darkest demons. You take it gently, but don't shake it. Just hold it, enjoying the feeling of its weight. She walks closer, presses her body slightly agaisnt yours, hand still safely tucked in yours, presses the other behind your neck and kisses your cheek. It lasts, the feeling of her lips against your skin burning like a thousand suns. You want to kneel before her and offer your soul.

"I guess I'll see you around, Lexa Woods."

"You will."

Cold invades you when she pulls back, letting go of your hand, and takes several steps back. "Goodnight, then."

Without thinking, as she continues to step back, you say, "Goodnight, goodnight, parting is such a sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be tomorrow."

She bites her lips and duck her head with a bashful smile. You want to love this woman already. With a last look, she turns and seconds after, she's gone. In the car, you think about Michelangelo paintings and naked blonde goddesses.

-

You're at work the following morning when you hear from her again, and it's a good thing, because you were wracking your brain for an excuse to talk to her. It's a text, at first you don't recognize the number, but you immediately know who it is.

**You bought my painting.**

Loniless grants you discretion and you allow yourself to smile like a schoolgirl. You are so fucked.

_Hello, Clarke. I, indeed, purchased one of your painting, yes._

**And for 4 times the price.**

_That is accurate as well._

**I can't accept it.**

_Why is that?_

**I'm not something you can just buy, despite you having the money for it.**

_I never thought such a thing, my acquisition of this painting was merely based on your talent._

**Still, it is far too much.**

_Judging by the quality of your work, I'd say it's not nearly enough._

You're nervous and scared. It was wrong of you to assume things and throw in money at her. You should have known better.

_Look, I just know that you won't even get half of the money. It just didn't feel right that you don't get what you deserve out of it._

_I am not expecting anything from you._

You feel yourself panicking, why are you loosing your touch like this. Why are you making everything worse.

_I'll take the money back if it makes you uncomfortable._

**You're sweet.**

**Can you stop squirming and go back to your charming self? I was just joking.**

_My charming self? So I guess my lines did work on you._

**You quoted Shakespeare to me. I'd say it worked fine.**

**Also thank you. For the painting.**

_You're quite welcomed, Clarke._

You throw your head back, resting it on the back of your 500$ leather desk chair, and close your eyes smiling.

"Someone got laid last night." You hear. Never opening your eyes, you answer, "Hello, Anya, I'm glad to see you too."

"Whatever, sis. I want details." You look at her then, look stern.

"There's nothing to tell, you know I was at the gallery opening." When she says nothing and looks at you insistent, you add, "I did not get laid. I went, met the artists, bought a painting, and went home." Just as you finished your half lie, your phone buzzes. You look at the phone on your desk, as it buzzes again. And again. The name Clarke screaming the truth. Then at Anya, and the clearly pleased look on her face. You mute your phone, and turn it screen down.

"Did you come here to ask about my dating life or was there an actual reason?"

"Can't I just come greet my sister casually? I brought coffee." You sigh, and smile at her. You didn't even notice, but she is in fact holding two coffee.

"Okay, you win. What do you want to know?"

"Oh my god I knew it. What's her name?" So you tell all about Clarke, how she's she best painter of her generation, the most beautiful woman known to mankind, how you almost kissed her and how right her hand felt in yours.

"You're gross, you know that right?"

"Yeah, well. You asked for it. Are you happy? Can we move on?" But still, you're both smiling.

And with that, the conversation drifts to work and obligations. You fight a little, things that are said for too often come back. "Can't we talk to the inverstors sooner?" or "I emailed you that twice already!" followed by "You should email me professionnal things more often if you want me to actually read them right away!" ending with "You're the head of the fucking board, Anya, litterally the only person above you is me. You know better than anyone how to impose your decisions."

When she's gone, though, you retrieve your phone on the desk.

**Are you at work?**

**Did I bother you?**

**I did, obviously, I'll let you work.**

_I'm sorry Clarke, I was working yes. But you're not bothering me, if anything, it's quite nice to have the distraction._

**What's it like being CEO?**

_Stressfull._

**What do you do exactly, like, what's the job description?**

_Well, it goes along the lines of "the future of the company rests solely on the decisions you make, so choose wisely."_

**Sounds stressfull indeed.**

_I love it. I was well trained. I do have the future of hundreds of jobs on my shoulders though._

**So you're basically the commander of all?**

_That's one way to put it._

**It's a hot title if I ever heard one.**

You bite your lip. You had to play your card right.

_I wouldn't have the pretention to call myself that, but you can if you want to._

**Do you want me to call you that?**

_You can call me whatever you want._

This conversation is heading in a dangerous way, not a safe for work one. Trying with all your might to concentrate on the e-mail before you, you pray that Clarke won't answer right away. That she will take this conversation to a safer way. You don't have the willpower of denying this woman. You have been at her mercy since you have been graced with blue eyes staring into your own.

**I'll remember that.**

_Please do._

You sigh in relief and check the time. Still an hour until lunch. You turn your phone screen down one more time and decide to focus on the task at hand. You write e-mails, check reports, prepare meetings. When you stop, it's three hours later and you didn't even have lunch. You sigh, you do this everytime. You lean back in your chair. Now is as good as any time to have lunch, so you go back to texting Clarke in the meantime.

You learn about her, her life, her work. You learn that her mother, Dr Abby Griffin, works as a cardio surgeon, and is married to Kane. They met through her when Clarke had her first exhibit, and Kane was the director of the small gallery. Since then, she calls herself the matchmaker, despite the fact that this is the only couple that got together because of her. You smile when she tells you that "just because it didn't happen again doesn't mean it never will". She tells you about her love for simple things, about her small one bedroom appartement with brick-walls and big windows. She tells you so much, and you want to tell her too. It doesn't come easy for you. People aren't often genuinely interrested in your life story, and rather talk about your money of your company.

You love money and nice things, and luxury, but sometimes you wish it didn't define you. You don't feel that with Clarke. So you tell little things about you. You tell her how you like your whisky, about how you like to lose yourself in the view of your appartement. You don't tell you'd wish she could enjoy the view while you'd enjoy something else. Instead, you tell her about how you go golfing every last sunday of the month, with invertors, mostly, sometimes you like to go by yourself. You tell her about your obsessions with ties, pocket squares, and litterally every accessories you can think of. You don't tell her of the deep fear that runs wild beneath your skin, the one in which you are never enough and you fail your father's memory. The one where you try to do the right thing and end up ruining everything.

When night comes, you're relieved to be able to have an early night, those don't come often. You're happy to be lounging, watching old Audrey Hepburn movies. The texting never stops, and you love that you feel this incessant need to reach out to each other. At one point though, the phone rings and it's her.

"Hello, Clarke."

"Must you always be so formal?" There's a smile somwhere in that tone, you crave to see it.

"It is a mere expression of politeness." A laugh. Oh please, laugh again my love.

"Right. I called to see if you were going to ask me out at one point, or if I can just stop waiting." That flirtatious tone is killing you and you resist the urge to ask her to marry you instead.

"You should definitly wait." Best suave voice, check. Game on. You have this. Silence, for long moments that indicates, you can only guess, that Clarke is in fact waiting for you to make your move. Ah, she's in for a ride.

"Well.. I'm waiting."

"Patience, Clarke, is a virtue, you should know that."

"I forgot about virtue when you suggested that I call you Commander."

Your jaw drops at that, that girl is challenging you in all the right ways. You feel hot, suddenly. But you have to stay strong.

"Anticipation only heighten one's experience. You should learn not to rush things."

"I'm learning alright." You get up from the couch to go to bed. You stop at the door of your room, though because the tone of her voice has you weak in the knees.

"How do you like it so far then?"

"How do I like it? I guess you'll have to find out for yourself." You grab the door for support.

"Trust me, I will." You can almost hear the shudder that pass her body, and you imagine her. Eyes closed, mouth hanging open, trying so hard to keep a grasp on reality. Moments pass and neither of you say anything, enjoying the tangible and deep tension, asserting the implications of your last statement.

"What are you doing then?" She asks.

"Getting into bed."

Another long silence. Heavy breath. You know where this could lead but you will not engage in such things. Not when you don't even asked her on a date yet. You want to treat her right first. Heavy flirting can be accepted, but she will be wooed.

"I guess I should let you go to sleep then."

"You're not bothering me Clarke, I'm content to just lie there and talk to you."

"You shouldn't tell me about you lying around in bed if you want me to wait and behave."

You chuckle to try and cover the way you throb at the words.

"Alright, I won't."

"How was work today?"

"Difficult, I got into a fight with Anya, as per usual."

"Anya?"

"That's my sister."

"Ah, yeah. Heard about her at the gallery."

"Yes, she went there a couple times to supervise the rehabilitation."

"I never thanked you for this you know. It's amazing what you did for the gallery."

"Don't thank me. It was an important project for me. Besides, it has its perks."

"Oh really, like what?"

"Well, you see, I bought this amazing painting from this crazy beautiful artist. Maybe you've heard of her, she's getting quite famous."

"She sounds like a catch, who is she?"

"Clarke Griffin."

You hear a faint "fuck" and pretend like you don't. She clears her throat and say, " I didn't catch that, who did you say she was?"

You smirk the fuck out your mouth at this. Oh, Clarke.

"Clarke Griffin." You repeat, lower, slower, dragging it out and rolling it on your tongue, making sure you accentuate the _click_ at the end of Clarke, and if you're really being honest with yourself, you'd say that you quite enjoy it too.

"Okay, I think I'm going to hang up now."

"Is everything okay?" Too easy.

"Marvelous. I'm tired suddenly."

"Very well, then."

"Are you going to quote Shakespeare again?"

"If you wish so."

"I do."

"Okay, but first, I have to ask." You pause for emphasis, for the sake of _anticipation_. "How would you like to go on a date tomorrow night?"

"I'll have to think about it." You laugh loudly at that.

"Oh, are you going to leave me so unsatisfied?"

"Patience is a virtue, Commander. On this note, I bid you goodnight."

"A thousand times goodnight, A thousand times the worse to want thy light."

There's a soft sigh, and then the line is gone. You smile to your phone for hours, blessing whoever is responsible for you making the best decision of your life, the one of funding the small gallery. When the screen of the phone lights up you realize that it has in fact been only minutes, and underneath Clarke's name on the notification, you read "Pick me up a 7 tomorrow. From now until then seems like twenty years.", and when you close your eyes, you dream of Clarke in a wedding dress and Clarke out of that dress.

It's already morning, and you're ecstatic. You work extra hard, and only let Clarke distract you with her texts for only short moments. But mostly, you go through your meetings, call investors, clients, and wrap everything by 5. Being CEO has its benefits, after all. And by 5:30, you're in the shower and ready to start your favorite routine. You choose a 4 pieces suit this time, it's Ralph Lauren, light grey, with a black shirt. Grey tie, no pocket square. You put on your watch, and decide that you'll do your hair up again. You like it. Clarke seemed to like it too. When you're ready, an hour later, you decide to drive there.

After letting your driver know that he has the night off, you go to Clarke's. You feel giddy, and excited. You try not to let it show too much. Once again, you're on a mission here: woo the girl. Sweep her right off her feet. When she gets out of the building, you think about sitting down for a moment, and asking someone to teach you how to breathe. What was it with this woman and strapless dresses? Doesn't she know that collarbones are you weakness? Doesn't she know that hers are the most exquisite that exist? Her dress is white, soft and she looks so pure. Her hair is up as well, in a ponytail. Damn, she looks perfect.

"Clarke, you look astonishing."

Bashful look, lip bite. Those are the right signs. It makes her even more beautiful.

"Shall we go then?" You pull the door of the car open when she nods, and hold it until she is seated in your two seaters vintage '55 Ford Thunderbird. That car is the treasure of your life and you hope it makes quite the impression on Clarke.

"Where are we going?" She asks as the car goes into gear.

"To my favorite place in the world. Well, second favorite place."

"What's the first?"

"I'll tell you later about this one."

The conversation quiets down and then it's silence. It isn't necessarily awkward, it is not comfortable either. It's full of tension, and nerves. You drive in silence for a moment. When you arrive at the destination, you can say that she's surprised. Standing before you was an old diner, it's rustic in a modern way, if it even makes sense.

"Is it okay? I didn't want to take you to a cliché nice restaurant, where people would have bothered us, and this is my favorite place. I used to come here with my father."

You smile shyly, you're nervous. You're both way overdressed for this place, but you felt like this was more intimate than any other place.

"It's perfect. Let's go inside."

You hold the door opened for her, smile at Titus, the owner, and walk her to your table. The same since day one. You pull back her chair and wait for her to sit.

"They truly serve the best food I've ever tasted. Please feel free to order whatever you want."

"You're too good to me." She smile but it's not bashful.

"Well you deserve it all, and much, much more." When you feel her foot against your calf under the table, and her hand grabing yours, you fear for your safety, for your heart seems to have stopped and has no desire of starting again.

"I can't wait to find out what." You swallow, but you hold her gaze and squeeze her fingers.

"So tell me all about yourself." You say after a moment, leaning back in your chair and smiling as Clarke starts to laugh and tells you about her life. You don't fail to notice that her foot never stops touching you.

Again, you listen as she talks about Octavia, and her childhood with her. But, she's asking questions too, so really, it quickly becomes a casual version of 20 questions, where the conversation never ends and you both want to learn about the other. She tells you about her college life, about how she used to act like such a frat boy, dressing in her beanie and varsity hoodie. You try and keep this in mind for future references when asked about fantasies.

You tell her of your father, Gustus, a hard working man that built an empire, a loving father that often hid behind a strong mask of stoic features. You don't tell her about your mother because what could you say about someone you don't even know? She doesn't ask. She keeps touching you under the table, reach to graze your hand, and behind the sweetness in her eyes you see desire. You try to ignore it. You fail.

When dinner is over, and you paid, leaving a tip that equals the check, you present her with your arm, and lead her back to the car. You don't even wait for her to get cold, and slip your coat over her shoulder in silence. She's leaning against the car, while you adjust it, and without thinking, you trail your arm over her arms, pretending to warm her up. Your face is close to hers, you try not to press your body into her, but her warmth is inviting. You take a step, not quite touching her but feeling the weigh of her body anyway.

You close your eyes, and breathe her in. You live for these kind of moments, intense tension and awaiting. You slip an arm behind her on the small of her back. Her sigh mix with yours. Finally, you say "Let's get you home.", and reach for the handle of the car door, pushing it opened against her. It only results in pushing her against you fully and your resolve threaten to crumble but it's not time yet.

You pull back, and let her climb in the car, and once again, the ride is silent. At one point, she grabs your hand from the gearshift, put it on her knee. You have a hard time focusing on your driving, but oh, you bless the Smiths for ever writing _And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die_.

You squeeze your fingers around her bare leg, and pull it away, because you're not sure how low is your self-control running, but you guess that there is isn't much of that left.

When you park, it's not quite in front of her building, and when you open the door for her to exit the car, you don't get in again.

"Let me accompany you to your door Clarke, I don't want to take back the jacket yet and risk for you to get cold."

"Oh, propositionning me already, Miss Woods?"

"I wouldn't dare. I am only concerned about your well being."

"I never said I was offended. Or unwilling." She walks ahead of you then, just a few steps, and when she opens the door of the building and hold it open for you to get in, you cast her a quizzical look. Oh, dangerous woman.

"I'm just really cold and the building's not warmed. Just walk with me to my door, I'll give you your jacket back when I get inside."

You don't say anything and walk with her, you lean on the back wall of the elevator and try again to control yourself and not look at the way her legs disappear underneath the dress, how you wish you could unveil all the treasures it holds.

Once in the corridor, you let her lead the way, watching her walk, and when she stops in front of one door, she turns to you. You step closer and hover in her space. One kiss goodnight, you tell yourself. One minute of heaven before you turn and go. Somewhat, you step into her, and she steps back, slightly, never letting your bodies touch, but never letting more space between you. Her back hits the door. Still your lips haven't touched, and both your hands come to rest on the door, framing her head with your arms.

Your lips almost touch, and you revel in the feeling of her giving you her oxygen, sharing what's been inside of her, what makes her live. Your whole body is buzzing with anticipation, how you love it. When she leans her head, you pull back, and the whimper she lets past her lips almost has you on your knees. Long minutes pass and when finally, slowly, carefully, you press your lips against hers, two long sighs are released, like you both forgot to breathe at the same time, and lips on lips reminded you.

It feels glorious, it's slow, and intense. You don't break it, never. You wouldn't dare pull back from perfection. But she's greedy and soon, her tongue is pressing against your mouth, and you can do nothing but comply and open it to let her in. Her hands grab the collar of your shirt, trying to pull you closer. You don't let her. Right hand slips on her cheek, on her neck, acquainting itself with the feel of her skin. The kiss is deep, taking its time to live and die against your soul. Tempting. Teeth nips at lips, tongue brush against each others, open mouths hover each others, breaths tangle as you try to steal the air from her lungs.

"I should go."

"No you shouldn't."

"I thought you said you were going to give my jacket back when you get in." You swallow each others words, never quite able to detach your mouths.

"I never said anything about going in alone." She says, running her hands on your chest, stopping just before your breasts, "Besides, I was never even cold in the first place."

Your resolve is slipping alarmingly fast. Oh it was bad. It was terrible, if you let the last of your control go. Oh what you wished to do to this girl.

You kiss her back more forcefully, more hungry. More wanting, and she finally press your body fully into her own, and you can't help to pin her painfully hard against the door with your hips. You're getting crazy, fighting a losing battle. And the defeat never tasted this good.

"I want this." She says against your ear when you kiss her neck.

"Clarke." You say back against her skin.

"Don't hold back." She says when her hands grip your hips, urging them to press harder.

"Clarke.." You say, your teeth still on her shoulder. It's more pleading than warning, now though.

"I want you." She says, her hands on your ass, never letting you go.

What you want to answer is "Clarke, let's take a breather." What you want to tell her is "It's not reasonnable, Clarke.", what you want to say is "Patience is a virtue, Clarke, you should know better."

What comes out of your mouth instead is "What do you want, Clarke?"

You're gone when she breathes "Take me." against your lips. It's over, the fight is over and you let go. Your hands immediately go underneath her dress, touching her up her delicious legs, ending on lacy underwear. When she whimpers "Please", you drop on your knees like you dreamt of doing so many times. You're barely aware that you're still in the corridor of her building, and that people might walk by. It's barely 10:00, on a friday night. People are bound to go out or go in. This tiny bit of knowledge sends chills down your spine. You live for the thrill.

It doesn't seem to bother her too much, because when you look up at her for confirmation, for permission, she only lift her dress, exposing herself to you and while she whispers your name, you lean your forehead against her stomach, and just breathe her in. You don't waste any more time after that, pulling the offending and beautiful garment down her legs, not even bothering to take it off completely, you just let it there, above her knees, and the first touch of your lips against her has you both moaning in pure _relief_.

She pulls a hand over her mouth, not wanting to draw attention, and the other flies to your hair, urging you on. You'd take your time, you'd make her beg with all her might but you're not really capable of that since you're as desperate as she is. You taste her hard, and long. And she feels wonderful inside your mouth. She feels right, and you feel like you belong. Nails claw at her thighs, grab, touch. You hear her moan under her hand, all muffled and contained, and it's beautiful.

When she comes, she almost falls on you. You're quick to catch her, standing once again, not even daring to put her underwear back in place. You kiss her hard, and she whimpers at the taste of herself.

"You taste _divine_." You say hotly into her mouth.

"Are you still so prone on not coming in?" She teases, god, she's infuriating.

"Open that damn door so I can fuck you some more, now." She turns instantly, fumbling for her keys and when the door opens, your hear her say "As you wish, Commander."

She doesn't have the time to realize that she's inside the appartment, and you already have her up against the wall, turning her around. This girl should learn not play with fire. This girl should learn not to tempt you, not to dare you, not to turn you on so much.

You fuck her hard and slow from behind, the lights still off, her dress still on, jacket still on, underwear still where they had previously been. When she comes again, you just can't wait for it to happen again, and this time, she does fall to her knees. You kneel down behind her, and one thing leading to another, you're on your back on the floor and you make her ride your face. You drag it out this time. There's no one to interrupt you. You have all the time and privacy in the world, to make her howl in pleasure for an hour without stopping.

Once she finishes again, and you lost count of how many times it's been, too sensitive and exhausted, you lay on the floor, catching your breath for long minutes. At one point, you both get up, and the jacket finally go, as does the dress. As does the underwear. Only remains her stilettos. You think you're going to take her again right there, but she has other ideas,and before you have the time to protest, you're on the couch, her head between your legs, and you're helpless. You come two times before you can have the idea to fuck her again.

You manage to make your way to the bed, and she learns that the more she talks to you, the more aggressive you get, the more passionate, the more turned on. She learns that you love to whisper dirty things to her while you take her. So in the quiet of the night, between moans and pants, one can hear things like "You fill me up so good", and "I wish I could stay inside you forever." If they listen close enough, they'll hear "You're so magnificent, I can barely take it." or "Love on me again, love on me hard.". If they could see, they'd see two bodies so entangled that it would be impossible to tell them apart. They'd see passion, lust, pleasure, and amongst all of it, they'd see love. A secret love, not yet admitted and barely acknowledged, but unmistakably there. Shared and new, running deep beneath the soft light of the midnight hour.

When the exhaustion overcome the neverending hunger, you lay on your side, faces close, almost kissing, almost.

"Will you be there in the morning?"

"Lady, I swear by the sacred moon above -" She lazily put fingers over your mouth.

"You should know better than to swear by the moon, Romeo." You laugh, it's quiet and tired. "Do you know every line of that damn book?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm fucked." Her voice is balerly a whisper, and when you kiss her, soft smiles barely touching, you feel content.

"That, too."

And then you're asleep. Tonight you dream of a hundred lifetimes where you and blonde perfection find each others and fall in love for all eternity. Sometimes it's doomed, and sometimes it's not. In everyone of them though, you love her with strength and beauty.

When you wake up, you're alone in bed. You can hear her in the other room, talking. You smile, stretch the muscles on your back that are deliciously aching. You reach for your pants, boxer briefs, and put them on, not bothering to fasten your belt. You assume that it's not going to stay on long. You put on your bra, and search for your shirt but it's nowhere to be found.

You exit the room like this, and can't believe the true sight that is front of you. Clarke Griffin, love of your life, perched on a kitchen counter, in nothing but lacy underwear and black shirt, that is opened, mind you.

You freeze, and she hasn't seen you. She's talking on the phone, and you shouldn't listen, you shouldn't, you know it. But the sound of her voice and her body have you hypnotized. You can't move, nor make a sound. You're bound by the curse of her beauty.

"O, I am calling you now. No, well, yes the date went perfectly. Yeah, we went back to mine. Octavia!"

She laughs with her head thrown back and hop off the counter, faces away from you and sit on a piano bench, that's when you notice the upright piano against the wall. She traces the keys with her fingers. You wonder if she can play. Probably since it's there.

"I can't even begin to tell you how incredible it was. And hot. Jesus, I can barely stand." She laughs again at that, hard and carefree. "Well you asked for it so don't go around complaining. What about you though, did you finally gather up the courage to ask that cute Tech girl from the exhibit? What was her name again? Raven? Yeah that. O, she gave you her number, I'm pretty sure it means "call me". Well just text her then, worked for me. Octavia, that girl was looking at you like you were the last supper, I think you're safe."

Softly you paddle across the room and wrap your arms around her from behind. She jumps slightly before leaning into you and letting out a sigh. "Mh, yeah. Yeah you do that." She goes on, and you start to kiss down her neck, the once subsided hunger now returning. "I got to go O, I'll call you tomorrow. Call Raven and ask her out, or heavily imply that you want her to do it. Once again, it worked for me. Okay, bye."

She turns her head once the phone is discarded on the floor, and turns to kiss you. Jesus, you forgot her lips were this addictive.

"Are you hungry?"

"Only for you." She smiles and bites her lips, grabs your neck from behind, while your run your hands on her body underneath your shirt. Damn, what a sight.

"Can you play the piano?" You ask.

"Yeah"

"Impressive."

"Maybe I can teach you." Interresting. You sit next to her then.

"Okay then, professor. Teach me."

You don't have the heart to tell you that you already know how to play, taught by your father when your were 10. You'll just tell her you're a fast learner.

She shows you some chords. Tells you that it's intuitive, that you play the rhythm with your left hand, and melody with the right. She shows you the easiest chords, and you calmly repeat the motions she shows. After some tips, she tells you to try out yourself, and when you easily reproduce what she played without even looking down at the chords, she lift her eyebrows and look at you.

"What? I guess I'm just good with my hands."

"I don't doubt that."

You start to play then, and laugh when she just ducks her head, disbieliving that you played her again, but not mad. The melody falls easily under your fingers, and when the cue is here, you sing softly.

 **"** _Don't need permission, Made my decision to test my limits, Cause it's my business, God as my witness, Start what I finished, Don't need no hold up, Taking control of this kind of moment, I'm locked and loaded, Completely focused, my mind is open, All that you got, skin to skin, oh my god, Don't ya stop, girl_

Somethin' 'bout you makes me feel like a dangerous woman  
Somethin' 'bout, somethin' 'bout, somethin' 'bout you  
Makes me wanna do things that I shouldn't-"

You don't have the chance to sing more before she climbs on top of you, mouth attacking yours, and all pretense are gone. You lift her and make her sit on top of the piano, sitting back on the stool, you run your hands up her thighs, and they open wide, her feet making the keys of the piano ring. When you lean in, to kiss up her legs, she slips them on your shoulders, bringing you closer, and from here, you show her how hungry you've been since you woke up.

She cries and screams and you think, surrounded by all that is Clarke, that you can't think of a single thing you love to do more than her. You'd starve yourself to death if it meant that you got to feed only off her body for the rest of your short, wonderful life. She comes in your mouth and you don't stop until she comes two more times.

You decide after that to make actual food, and you realize that you both need rules to stop hands from wandering and distracting if you actually want to return to the real life someday. It's decided that you'll do the cooking, and breakfast ressembles more lunch. You talk to her while busying yourself in the kitchen, and she looks at you with desire, half naked in only your bra and pants opened, listens to you talk, and you don't know why but it's the most opened you've been, and you have no qualms anymore about telling her about the small and big things of your life.

You eat, still talking, occasionally distracted by nakedness, but you manage to control yourselves for an hour or two. All pretenses are gone after that and it's back to hungry kisses and fingers touching intimates places. When you're in bed, late in the afternoon, and the sun is getting low in the sky but not threatening to disappear yet, you bathe in golden light, draped across the bed, and you've never felt such peace. The yellowish light is soft against the birght red of the bricks, and you gaze out the window at the nice view of the brooklyn brigde, lying face down on the bed, the soft weight of your blonde lover resting on your lower back, soft fingers grazing your back tattoo.

"When did you get it?" She asks, quiet and shy.

"A little after my father died."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, these are the things of life."

She traces the part on the top, you know exactly which one.

"Memento Mori.. What does that mean?"

"That means.. Remember that you are dying." She doesn't answer. So you go on. "It means, for me, live your life to the fullest, remember that everything is fleeting. Unlasting. And even your own life is not to be taken for granted. Everything is uncertain, perishable. So enjoy it while it lasts, because ultimately, even you are disappearing."

"Are you afraid of death?" And in the false pretense of confidence, hidden in the crook of your elbow, you feel like you can confess.

"I used to. Not anymore."

"What made you change?"

"You."

You turn to look at her, and now, you realize, your body is not the only thing that lays naked in front of her. It makes your throat tighten and your heart ache. In a good way. In the best way.

She looks at you, wet eyes and trembling chin. You kiss her, and you know you don't need to explain. You kiss her until she calms down, and only a single tear escapes her. You wipe it away, doom it to be unseen but not forgotten.

"What are you afraid of the most?" She asks again. Questions like these feels like hands that plunge into your chest to search for your heart, usually curious and insistent. For the first time, however, you don't mind someone touching the soft muscle beating inside your chest, because it's not insistent, it's caring, and it's craddling, protecting.

"I'm afraid of a lot of things, if you can believe it."

"I can. I am too."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Of you leaving, me being a fling. Another conquest. Another lay."

"Does it feel like this? Do you feel like this is what this is?"

"No."

"Then trust your instincts. If I can feel it, you can feel it too." When she just nods, you trust her with more than your heart. "I'm scared that I'm not enough."

"Enough for what?"

"For everything. Not good enough to keep the company alive. Not good enough to make a change. Not good enough as a person."

"You're more than enough for me." You can only smile and kiss her. After a moment, the conversation resumes.

"I have to strongly disagree though. When you said that you were afraid of death before me."

"Why is that?"

"In your idea, you're not afraid of death anymore because you consider that you've consumed your life properly. That you feel somewhat complete, by meeting me."

"In so many words, yes."

"But what if there's so much more we can give each others? What about all the things we can experience? Doesn't that qualifies as reasons to not want to die?"

"Not wanting to die, and not being afraid of it are two very diffrent things. You can want to live but be accepting of your demise, would it happen to come earlier than you wanted or expected. But I guess you're right to some extend."

"What do you mean?"

"If I were to die tomorrow, I would hate myself for leaving you behind."

She kisses you so hard, your heart is bruised. You think it'll be bruised forever.

As the night finally settles over the city, you touch her intensely, without trace of aggresivity and hunger. You kiss every part of her tenderly, sweetly, with tamed lust and unshed love. You want to merge with her, and you hold her tight as you make love to her, your actions the ultimate proof of what is so blatantly happening. You understand with a striking clarity the expression of falling in love. You're in a free fall, helpless and uncontroling, only a witness to your ultimate demise, and you're not afraid of the landing for it never seems to come. You'll be happy falling for the rest of your life.

In the soft light of the morning, you fall asleep in each other's arms once again. This time, your dreams are filled with lazy sunday afternoons, lounging in a brooklyn appartment, and you wake up realizing it isn't a dream at all.

A week pass, and with the end of the week comes the realization that you haven't spent a single night alone. Sometimes you stay at hers, sometimes she stays at yours. She loves your place, and you love hers, because it's full of her. You think that you wouldn't mind if your place was a little bit fuller of her. It's friday night, and you wash off a week of work. You have a banquet to attend tonight, and you invited Clarke to go as your date. It feels so official. You hear her come into your appartment, and you try to remember when was the last time things didn't feel as domestic between you two. The answer doesn't even exist, because the first time she entered your place, you gave her a spare key, like you forgot for years that she was just supposed to be here, and you only just remembered.

Before you know it, she's here, in your bathroom.

"I'm super late! Lex, I haven't even showered yet, it's a disaster."

"Well you could always join."

So she does, as if she could consider turning down an offer like this. You kiss her hello, and press her into you.

"How was work today?"

"The usual, stressfull and busy. I missed you."

"I'm here now."

You kiss her lazily and graze her nose with yours.

"Remember when we went to Polis' Dinner on our first date, when I told you it was my second favorite place in the world?" You feel her nod into your neck. "Well, this is the first. There is no better place than under the shower, for me. You just made it a hundred times better though."

It was foolish to think you could gain time by showering together. And now you're both late. She chooses your suit when you get out. Light pink shirt with white collar, dark blue suit, matching a dark blue tie with paisley patterns. You praise her choices. You choose her dress, she picked three, and you choose a light pink one. You match your pocket square with it.

When you arrive at the banquet, you're proud to show off your girlfriend. The assertion of the relationship came easily. It wasn't even a discussion and it fell upon you quite naturally. Throughout the night, you marvel at the sight of her, merging into your world, making the effort, when really, she was a stranger to these kind of things. It turns you on and make you love her more.

After long hours of talking to the mundanity of New York City, though, you feel the need to breathe in her scent, and feel her close. You tug her hand, and bring her along with you to an elevator. She doesn't question, she just laughs as you run through the doors of the elevator, and when you exit at the last floor and guide her through a last set of step, you laugh too. Pushing the door of the roof, you squeeze her hand and then, you're looking at the New York City skyline, the buzzing city lighting a thousand stars in your eyes.

The dark night casts a hundred shadows on her face, and you learn again about the secrets of her face. She's utterly beautiful, ethereal. It is simultaneously unsubstantial and undeniable. You're not even sorry for the words that leave your mouth, watching her dance in your arms, rocking back and forth, looking at the life underneath your feet.

"Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, for I've never seen true beauty till this night."

She looks at you with shiny eyes.

"You have to stop quoting this thing to me."

"Why? I thought you loved it."

"Because it makes me want to love you already." She whispers, fears written between each and every words.

"Then I will repeat these words over and over."

"Is it wrong if I do already? Is it wrong that I've never felt like this before?"

"It never felt more right."

"I feel out of myself, I feel crazy."

"Crazy for me, I hope."

"I love you, I do."

You smile bigger than you've ever smiled before. When did life start treating you this way? Was this happiness bubbling inside your chest? Was this the feeling of pure bliss, that was threatening to make your heart burst out of your chest?

"It is my turn to serenade you with magic words, it is my turn to tell you what you do to me, how you make feel like I am whole again. So listen, and listen close."

"Speak, love."

" _If all else perished, and she remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and she were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger_." There are tears in her eyes, it's liquid happiness that is escaping her, in the same fashion it is escaping you: there is simply too much of it inside of you, some of it has to come out, or you might explode.

You kiss them away, you kiss them until they subside, but ultimately, they just mix with your own.

"Are you going to say it back?" She says.

"Yes, I will."

"Are you going to make me wait for it?"

"Yes, I will."

She looks deep within you, and you smile at her. After a moment, she speaks again.

"I don't think I can wait another minute."

You laugh, it's all smiles and wrinkles at the corner of your eyes. You lift her up in your arms, and whisper against her lips.

"I love you, Clarke Griffin."

You kiss her for all eternity, and when you make love to her underneath the stars, you repeat it relentlessly, in her ears, you write it on her skin, you breathe it in her mouth.

When you fall asleep against her chest, that night, you don't dream, because what more could you dream for?

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
